I often find myself hoping for rain now. I blame her. Hmmph, I say "her" like I'm sure she was a person. But whenever it rains I plaster myself to the window like a little kid. The sound equals comfort to me when few other things do. I used to hate the rain. It was wet, and it was often accompanied by destruction. Destruction took on a new name when I met her.
I remember all of it, every second. Sitting on the couch, hating the rain, and there she was. She was standing in the wetness staring at me through the window. I should have been freaked out but she was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes you breed songs, poetry. Her hair was night and her skin was day. I felt the energy change as soon as I saw her. The rain was consuming her but she didn't ask to come in. She just looked at me. I think that's why I opened the door.
Steam rose from her skin as she entered. When she walked past me and I swore she was dry. The rain stop, the world was quiet. She only asked if I was ready. That was last time I was able to focus. The last time I would know anything as vivid. The last time I would really know myself.
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